


insomnia, my dear best friend, my lover

by Itsnot_a_phasemum



Series: Eddsworld Oneshots [6]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, HMMMMMMM, I'm back!!!!! owo, Regrets, Suicidal Thoughts, This is pretty angsty, but feel free to read it, but when is he not, eye emoji, hewwo, its just a vent, pretty edgy xd, so just, tord is pretty edgy, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsnot_a_phasemum/pseuds/Itsnot_a_phasemum
Summary: All he asks for is a night of dreamless, peaceful sleep.





	insomnia, my dear best friend, my lover

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING!!!!!!!!!! depression/mentions of suicide tw**
> 
>  
> 
> this is somewhat heavily referenced off [Glass Animals - Agnes](https://youtu.be/PhdtdUljThU) ,,,, ack go listen to it while you read this! !!! !!! !

Calm down.

 

Quiet your breathing.

 

Stop and think a minute. 

 

Stop and breathe a second. 

 

Light a cigarette with trembling hands. 

 

Squeeze his eyes shut and force himself to the very beginning.

 

When friends were still friends, neighbors were still alive and when he just smoked to clear his head. 

 

Back when he was trigger-happy and filled with ambition, the young man hot-headed but eager to bring justice upon what he believed to be a twisted world. He really thought he was exhibiting justice then. Hilarious.

 

When he’d blurt out stupid puns to his friends, cackling when they either groaned or fired back with equally bad ones. Going on adventures. 

 

When scars do not litter his face, when the world had not poisoned his heart. When he didn’t spew acrimonious venom with his tongue, when he didn’t create evil with his hands. 

 

 

Nostalgia doesn’t keep the impending paranoia at bay.

 

 

Head so numb and spinning. Mind wrapping around unwanted thoughts that bleed into his flesh and leave scars no one else but him will ever see and feel.

 

A genius of love and loneliness, he sees the sad in everything. 

 

So low all the time, he’s high.

 

A nervous breath, a tender little sigh. Lingering thoughts better left unsaid. Hands clutching at thin air, desperate for something to hold onto. Something, anything. 

 

The damp cold air of dawn flowing through his body, The soft wind a melody to his ears. The white noise around him the accompaniment to this devastating, roaring, deafening world. The glowing moon the conductor, the lovely insomnia sweeping him up in its arms and keeping him company through the night, the two the only audience to the gentle lullaby of the night screaming into his ears, reminding him of who he is and what he’s done.

 

He looks at his hands, and they’re stained with blood, the crimson liquid dripping onto the floor, and each drip sounds louder than the last, the sound thumping in his ears. 

 

 

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

Drip.

 

 

 

He didn’t mean to kill an innocent man.

 

A long, long time ago, he vowed to himself never, never shed an innocent’s blood. 

 

Here he is now.

 

He’s going to have to break that oath a lot more, now. Maybe he already has, but he just never noticed. 

 

Huh.

 

It’s somewhat strange, if he thinks about it, how ordinary it is for him to talk about killing. He’s spilled so much blood, after all. Blood that fills up the floor when he’s dreaming, hands grabbing at his body and pulling him under. Accusing faces screeching at him as he submerges into the crimson blood, screaming. Crying. Laughing. All repeating the same thing.

 

All his fault.

 

When he wakes up, he doesn’t feel any better.

 

He doesn’t trust himself with firearms now, because of how much his hand shakes when he’s holding it, and with paranoia snaking around his trigger finger, he’s better off unarmed. He no longer relishes when his fingers slide around a gun. It worsens the nightmares when he does. He wonders when he’ll stop being such a coward and accept the responsibilities of his actions.

 

Sometimes, when he’s sitting awake for many nights, it numbs his head, dulls his thinking to the point where he’s content with sitting on his bed, a blank look in his lidded eyes as he lights a cigar. It’s the best nights he usually has these days, where he can comfortably sit with insomnia, the soft glow of the moon gently stroking his hair. It almost feels nice. 

 

There’s something romantic about sitting in absolute silence, the moonlight shining down on his body. No one can get him now. He’s free. But he can. 

 

It would be easy.

 

It would only take himself, his gun and enough despair. And the conditions are slowly, gradually fulfilling. Just a pull of the finger and he would be out of this sickly world, peacefully gliding through cosmos and unknown. Maybe his heart wouldn’t ache as much if that were to happen.

 

He’s barely hanging on.

 

 

Why is he hanging on? 

 

Why can’t he let go? 

 

Is it the thin thread of megalomania still coursing through his veins, or just a foolish part of him that thinks he can go back to his friends and make everything right again? Is it just plain fear of death? Or a combination of all of the above?

 

Whatever it is, he hopes he can get over it soon. Make things easier for everyone. Finally get rid of the feeling of impending terror in his gut.

 

He’s trapped in his own cage, refusing to come out. He threw away the key, and it hurts to squeeze between the bars. He’s mostly given up now, limp and helpless. A fool. 

 

Life is long when soaked in sadness. Time ticking away, so slowly, so quickly. The rhythmical tick-tock of the clock matching with the pounding of his heart, each thump letting him know that he is on borrowed time from Mr. Madness. 

 

Each breath choked out; each word stuck in his throat. Every movement strained, the only thing smoothly flowing his mind. It’d be better if his mind were like an electronic, running on logic and rationality alone. Free from pain and guilt. If only, If only.

 

He’s not a machine, unfortunately. He thought he was hardened, a calloused, cynical armor around him. He was wrong, wasn’t he? He never expected himself to be affected this much. If he could go back in time, he would change so many of his choices. He doesn’t want this. He didn’t need this. I DIDN’T WANT THIS. LET ME GO BACK.

 

 

If only his old friends could see him now. What would they think? What would they say? Furious? Disappointed? Filled with sadness? Or would they be happy that he’s getting what he deserves? Well, he knows at least one person who would feel that way. He doesn’t blame them. 

 

 

Would they say;

 

 

Where went that cheeky friend of mine?

 

Where went that billion-dollar smile?

 

 

Perhaps?

 

 

You’re gone but you’re on my mind.

I’m lost but I don’t know why. 

 

 

He’s gone but he’s on your mind.

 

You’re lost but you don’t know why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On my mind.

**Author's Note:**

> owo


End file.
